


A Tale of Healing

by Serpent_Ivoire



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Excessive Malik feels, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Scars, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpent_Ivoire/pseuds/Serpent_Ivoire
Summary: Written for this prompt:https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5kxe94/wp_you_live_in_a_world_where_each_lie_creates_a/You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	A Tale of Healing

The first time it happens he is in Masyaf.

Malik can see the sunset beyond the hills through the vast windows of what he used to call home, of what he will not be able to define as such from today forward. He takes in the view of the yellow and orange hues as they bounce off the roughly cut woodwork of Al Mualim's desk, the evening shadows starting to form in its creases. This is perhaps the last occasion he will have in a long while to admire these small details so he commits as much as he can to memory, for those nights when he will be forced to shut himself in the bureau away from the world and from what promises it no longer holds for him. Al Mualim himself is a dark silhouette against the brightness, back still turned towards his mentee as he calmly finishes explaining what is expected of Malik now that he is no longer fit ( _ crippled _ , Malik's mind supplies) to be an assassin.

When all is said, a long silence stretches between them, only broken by the gentle sounds of birds chirping in the garden. Malik is unsure whether to speak or leave, yet he has not been dismissed so he waits patiently and tries not to think about what is gone and cannot come back. It is only after a few moments that he hears Al Mualim say  “ My son. For the sake of the brotherhood I must ask, do you feel resentment towards Altaïr?”

Malik is very much taken aback by the question if nothing else because the reply is so blatant, so obvious, it need not be thought on and much less said. Visions of Kadar's blood flowing from his hands run through his mind, the Templars shouting, laughing, berating them and Altaïr nowhere to be seen, he has abandoned them to die, he has left them here and his brother is gone and -

The answer passes his lips as quietly as the summer breeze.

“ Yes.”

It is then that he feels it. A sharp pain, straight across his torso. Blood seeps through his white linen shirt and spreads as quickly as fire through a forest until his front is completely soaked in crimson. It takes his breath away and he falls to his knees, searching frantically around for any attempt on his life that may have been made. When no assassin creeps out from behind the library shelves he looks to Al Mualim for an explanation, eyes wide with confusion and bewilderment as he questions with a shaking voice “Mentor?”

Malik is breathing heavily and his pants echo through the empty hall behind him, abandoned and unheard by the brothers that have now retired to their chambers to rest. He knows Al Mualim can hear his distress, surely the fine tuned abilities of the Assassins still linger within him regardless of his advanced age. Yet the older man does not turn, does not spare him a glance when he coldly replies “You may take your leave now.” Malik is shocked but he is too dutiful to ignore an order, so he does what is requested. Unsure of how he finds his legs, or how he reaches his quarters, the only thing vividly engraved in his mind about that night is the pain and the enveloping darkness.

He wakes up the following morning with a heavy head and an even more substantial burden on his heart. No longer feeling any pain, the only witness that remains of the past evening is the fresh bandage on his upper body, assuring him it was not all created by his imagination in a moment of folly. He can only imagine Al Mualim must have sent one of the novices to take care of him, albeit he showed no immediate reaction upon seeing Malik wounded. Managing to sit up, he musters what energy he has and forces himself to leave the bed. There is a mirror on the other side of the room and Malik shuffles over to assess what damage this sudden and confusing wound has left on his already scarred body.

Untangling the bandage proves a feat with just one hand available but he fumbles until he manages all the same because he is not some invalid that requires assistance for the most menial tasks. Looking at his reflection he sees a bright red cut. It has more length than actual depth, almost as if the tip of a knife had sliced the skin open from the side of his right nipple to just underneath the last rib on his left side. For the life of him he cannot recall having taken such an injury in the last few weeks, much less one that looks like it could have easily healed in a handful of days. Considering the amount of blood shed it should have been a more debilitating wound as well, making it even more perplexing. He traces it with a calloused finger as he marvels at the absence of pain and notes that, even though it is clean at the edges, it appears jagged and crooked where it follows the creases of muscle and forms sharp angles.

It is not a pretty wound, yet he feels he could almost call it beautiful in comparison when his eyes are drawn to the place where his left arm is no longer attached.

////

The air is especially warm today in Jerusalem, the rays from high noon sun relentlessly illuminating the dusty streets as sandal adorned feet shuffle hastily to find relief under the shadow of sparse palm trees.

Inside the bureau, Malik is tempted to discard his Dai robe for a much needed pause from the suffocating heat. However, it is the middle of the day and any novice could leap in through the roof and catch him out of his official clothing, so he decides to distract himself from the heat with some reading rather than disrobing. The book he selects is of a philosophical nature intended to occupy his mind with musings on human nature and ways of the universe, the yellowed pages folding delicately under his hand as he leans over them on the wooden table that separates the main area from his working space.

He hears the muffled sounds of boots hitting the tiled floor what he assumes is a couple of hours later and deduces it must be one of the new additions, still not fully apt at making himself unheard upon arrival. He is proven correct when Bakir's slender face appears from around the corner.

They exchange the usual greetings as the novice explains he has been sent by Al Mualim to retrieve news from an informant. Bakir has yet to be assigned an assassination and Malik muses if that is to attribute to his clumsiness or the brotherhood's reluctance to risk a poorly executed mission ever since De Sablé made his appearance.

Nevertheless, the Dai remembers how frustrating it feels to be a newly appointed Assassin so he offers the youth a map and a few hints on how to avoid being easily spotted by the archers surrounding the area where he is to meet the informant. He thinks they are done as Bakir rolls up the map and shoves it with little to no grace underneath his robe (and Malik will have to press out the creases when he returns it, damn it all) but the novice lingers, shifting his weight from one foot to the next as he looks towards him hesitantly. 

Malik has no patience these days (or at any given time for that matter) for shyness so he furrows his brow in what he considers a fairly successful attempt to glare as he spits toward the novice “Well? Be out with it or be gone, my time is precious!” Bakir has the decency to look embarrassed before telling him “The informant is not the sole reason for my visit to Jerusalem, the Grand Master has also required I pass on a message. I am to tell you that brother Altaïr will most likely be coming to the city soon and he will require assistance.”

It has been months since he has seen the man, or heard his name spoken aloud, but if Malik has learned anything in his years of study it has been how to keep any emotion from showing. A good Assassin does not allow the enemy the advantage of knowing what passes through his mind. So he maintains an impassive stare as he thanks Bakir and assures him he will give any help that is requested of him. “ Thank you, Dai. If I may speak, it might give you some comfort to know that you are not the only one among the brothers to dislike Altaïr and his arrogance, the privileged treatment he receives is a burden upon us all."

Rage flares in Malik's heart at this, this unsolicited addition to the Grand Master's message. How dare this fledgling presume to define what he thinks of Altaïr as simple “dislike”, much less attribute it to jealousy towards the the old man's soft spot for him? How can he even begin to imagine how it must be to have one's entire life ripped away as easily as a limb is cut from a body? He cannot compare it to the envy the other assassins must nurture, he has lost more than his pride to Altaïr and will absolutely refuse to be grouped with this flock of beginners.

“ Dislike? Open your ears to this, novice, for I shall say it only once and we will never make mention of this again if you wish to leave the bureau intact. I will not be associated with whatever your feelings towards that man are, you will make no presumption of assuming you and I have anything in common and you will learn to hold your tongue when your opinion is not requested. Do you understand?”

Bakir looks as much confused as he does scared, his eyes furtively glaning twice at the entryway, an uncontrollable instinct every Assassin has to assess ways of best fleeing a situation when in danger. This appeases Malik slightly, the knowledge that even armless he can still instil fear in supposedly fearless hearts. The novice realizes he has made a mistake and is quick to correct himself lest he be accused of any ill will towards the cause. “I apologise for my bluntness Dai, I did not mean to show you anything less than respect. I was simply under the impression that you still held some form of grudge towards Altaïr. I see know that I am mistaken. I thank you for your assistance.” With that Bakir swiftly walks out the main area of the bureau and Malik can hear him climbing the fountain that leads to the roof before leaping across the wooden beams and disappearing into the city. The Dai is still furious and he slams the book he was previously reading closed, gritting his teeth and trying very hard not to punch his fist against the table.

Then, perhaps in an attempt to diminish his fury or perhaps because of the need to prove a point, he says to the empty bureau: “Dislike. Dislike is not enough. Hate is the correct word. I  _ hate _ Altaïr.”

The pain is sudden and intense, it flares up from deep inside him and once more takes his breath away as he keels over the counter top and desperately grasps at the edge to keep himself upright. His fingers find no purchase, however, and the motion only serves to embed a few loose splinters in his palm as he falls behind the wooden surface.

Breathing heavily, he lies on the floor for what feels like hours as he waits for the ache to subside. Once it no longer seems as sharp and overwhelming Malik manages to slowly drag himself to sit against the nearest wall. He leans his head against it, eyes closed in an attempt to recompose himself as he slowly feels around his robes for the blood that he subconsciously knows he is going to find. The search does not disappoint, the edge of his coat is is wet and most of his front is soaked, the smell of copper infusing the air. It takes more than a moment for him to muster the energy to pull himself to his feet.

Thankfully the bureau is small enough to allow him to reach his chambers with just a few steps before sitting gingerly down on the bed and slowly disrobing to see just what has occurred to open this old wound again (for he knows, he feels, that it is the same wound from his last night in Masyaf). Sure enough, the scar has opened, leaving the same long gash gaping. However, it now seems deeper somehow, as if the imaginary knife had been pressed inside with more vigour than the first time. Malik cannot fathom a rational explanation as to how this has happened, nor does he bother to consult a healer about it as they would surely deem him mad. He simply cleans the wound, which has now stopped bleeding ( _ bizarre _ ), before applying a bandage as best as he can with one arm available. The pain has dulled down quickly, unlike the night the gash first appeared. Malik deems it taken care of and tries not to dwell excessively on the mystery behind it as he is a man of reason and there is no place in his life for things of this sort.

He dresses and goes back to his desk to work on a map, very much willing to forget this dreaded day and all it has brought with it.

////

When Altaïr arrives it is with an arrogant stride in his strong legs and a prideful countenance on his handsome face, traits that Malik had much admired in the past (in perhaps more ways than one) before that fateful night when he lost everything. Now, seeing Altaïr, he only wants to beat the imbecile to his death.

There is no hesitation in his voice when he greets the Dai with a simple “Safety and peace, Malik”.

This only serves to rile Malik up even more as he is sure this man wishes him no safety, or peace for that matter, so he does what he thinks best and retorts with all the spite he can muster.

“ Your presence here deprives me of both. What do you want?”

He can see Altaïr's expression change, though it is not an apologetic look that adorns his features, rather a defensive one. When they were younger, Malik had all the time in the world to learn to read the other man's expressions, to learn how he would wrinkle his nose ever so slightly whilst trying to memorise a map, or how he would tilt his head back in defiance when he protected Kadar from the older boys that used to mock him because of his gentle disposition. This is how he knows that the way Altaïr's eyes narrow ever so slightly is a clear indication of how he is ready for combat, be it with arms or with words. Excellent, Malik is just looking for an excuse to tear his ego to pieces.

“ Al Mualim has asked -”

“ Asked that you perform some menial task in an effort to redeem yourself.”

He waits for the inevitable scathing retort that is to follow so he may continue on his quest of making Altaïr see red but after a few seconds nothing comes and he realises he is being childish and unnecessarily bothersome. Yes, he wants to see Altaïr fume but he also does not want to compromise the brotherhood in any way if this is somehow a time sensitive mission, so he swiftly adds “So be out with it!”. 

Judging by how Altaïr wastes not a second in telling him what he needs Malik is sure that there is indeed no time to waste. That or the newly demoted Assassin wishes to leave the bureau as quickly as possible. “ Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal.”

Malik knows Altaïr's conceitedness knows no bounds yet he had perhaps expected him to be slightly humbled by the recent turn of events. He has lost rank, lost arms, lost trust and respect amongst the brotherhood, and yet here he is asking someone else to do work in his stead. Ah, the cheek.

“ It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man Altaïr, not mine.” He does not mean it to pass as reluctance to aid, yet this is precisely what the other man perceives given the Dai's prior defensive attitude. Malik supposes he should have known better than to provoke the Assassin, yet his reason always stumbles in the presence of this novice he once called friend.

“ You'd do well to assist me. His death benefits the entire land.” Altair says, a slight note of anger dripping off the subtle reminder of Malik's obligation to help the brotherhood.

Malik knows very well where he stands, he does not need this disgrace to the cause reminding him of his place, much less when it is so much higher than this novice's.

He silently contemplates ways he could kill Altaïr with the feather under the counter but maturely opts to bite back with a subtle dig instead. “ Do you deny his death benefits you as well?”

The Assassin has still not left the entryway and this distance between them only serves as an ulterior reminder of the invisible barriers that divide them now.

“ Such actions do not concern you.”

There it is again, this allusion to the fact that Altaïr is somehow superior to Malik, that somehow he is wiser and more knowledgeable in things of the brotherhood, that somehow he is entitled to  _ more _ than Malik will ever be. It is this that makes the Dai fill even more with rage, the thought that this man has everything within his grasp, has lost so little yet will gain so much. He has not known the pain of true loss, has not seen his own blood exhale their last breath in front of him. He will never truly  _ know _ .

“ Your actions very much concern me!” he shouts, the loose cloth folded over where his arm should be undulates as he swivels his left side towards Altaïr in a reminder that it is his fault, it is his arrogance, that has put them in this situation and sent his brother to the afterlife.

He swears he sees a glimpse of remorse, of pain, pass through the Assassin's features as quick as lightning before the taller man swivels around, white cloak swirling behind him and hands tightly clenched at his sides. He moves as if to leave while he adds “Don't help me, I'll find him myself.”

Malik is caught off guard by this sudden display of emotion, as small as it was. Altaïr was not one to allow things such as these to slip through the cracks, at least not since he had reached full height and all the softness of boyhood had abandoned his face. It reminds him of better times and his anger dissipates, suddenly he does not wish the man to leave like this, to face the harsh streets of the city with rage on his mind and sourness in his mouth.

The Dai sighs, once, loudly, because the least he can do is appear inconvenienced by this request. “ Wait, wait. It won't do to have you stumble about the city like a blind man.”

He strongly doubts Altaïr could actually stumble in any situation but he surely will not miss the chance to add an additional gratuitous insult to the Assassin's form.

“ Better to know where to begin your search.” He accompanies this by a swoop of the hand, which is meant as an invitation for Altaïr to leave the doorstep and come into the main area. The other man has turned around but does not budge from where he is solidly planted under the door frame ( _ I'm listening _ , he says), so Malik opts to move towards him instead in a peace offering that he does not fully understand himself. “ I can think of three places: south of here in the markets that align the border between the Muslim and the Jewish districts, to the north near the Mosque of this district and the Eastern front of St. Anne's church.”

“ Is that everything?” Altaïr asks, seemingly appeased by this help.

“ It's enough to get you started” Malik answers and, for good measure but mostly because he is still slightly confused by his good will, adds on: “and more than you deserve.”

A few moments of silence pass between them and the Dai can see the faint glimmer of one golden eye as it gazes intensely towards him in what he is sure is an assessment of his intentions. He knows of Altaïr's sight, they all do, and he is aware of how it aids the Assassin in better understanding who he is able to trust and who poses a threat. He has not been the subject of the sight for years now yet he is sure that in this instant, hearing the merchants shouting in the distance from inside the safe haven of the bureau, he is once again being appraised.

Then, in a blink, Altaïr is gone, leaving nothing but dust in his wake. Malik sighs once more, turning to settle his books.

That night rest does not come easily.

////

“ Malik.”

It is the following day and Altaïr has returned, robes filthy and reeking of more than simple sweat from the scalding afternoon sun. Malik's nose turns up yet he graciously does not comment on how the stench is most likely going to linger inside the room after the Assassin's departure. He opts, instead, for saying “Come to waste more of my time?”

“ I have found Talal. I'm ready to begin my mission.”

It does not work this way any more and Altaïr needs to learn this, he is no longer Malik's superior and he must know his place. “ That is for me to decide.” he says before reaching under the counter and pulling out a heavy leather bound tome. Each bureau has an equal piece where they register relevant findings from each mission in order to pass on the information through both the brotherhood and time.

He raises his eyebrows in expectation towards the Assassin and waits for him to catch on. Altaïr is once again staring strangely at him, possibly trying to assess whether it is worth the fight or if he should just bow his head and obey. Reason must uncharacteristically win out for once because after a few heartbeats the Assassin gives in by saying “Very well. Here is what I know.”

The information Altaïr provides is for the most part common knowledge but the point of the exercise is humbling the Assassin, making him remember his origins and perhaps allowing him to acquire a bit of wisdom along the way, so Malik makes offers no commentary and allows him to speak. He does, however, pace back and forth behind the wooden counter top partially because Altaïr's voice still grates his nerves and partially because the man's impassive stare makes him want to squirm.

“ ....if I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge.”

It seemed too good to be true that Altaïr should bow his head and carry out a task without showing even a minuscule hint of his ego. Of course, Malik is not one to let that pass unremarked.

“ Little challenge? Listen to you. Such arrogance.” He allows a smirk to grae his features to drive the figurative blade even deeper as he makes a high swooping gesture meant to encompass the vastness of Altaïr's pretension.

It proves to be an effective gesture as the Assassin's shoulders square and he pulls himself up to full height before looking down his nose at the Dai in his impatience. He looks exasperated and Malik applauds himself internally for a job well done.

“ Are we finished? Are you satisfied with what I've learned?”

Malik wishes he could tell him he hasn't learned anything they didn't already know, or that the only reason he acquired this information was because he was given assistance, or even  _ No, fuck you Altaïr _ . Instead, he leaves the profanities behind and limits himself to saying “No. But it will have to do.”  He begrudgingly grasps a white feather from a drawer and leaves it on the table, taking an almost imperceptible step back. The Assassin hesitates for a few seconds, as if unsure that Malik won't stab him after all in the secrecy of the bureau where not a soul would see it happen, before taking three wide steps towards him to pick it up and slot it tidily in the creases of his belt.

It is the first time they are this close and from here Malik can see the newly formed wrinkles next to Altaïr's eyes, which are also defined by dark purple circles most likely due to lack of sleep. The scar on his lip is stark white against his tan skin, his lips slightly cracked no doubt by the desert heat. Malik sees three white hairs amongst his eyebrows.

He catches himself staring and does not allow time for the other man to notice as he musters all the bite he possesses to say “Rest, prepare, cry in the corner. Do whatever it is you do before a mission, only make sure you do it quietly.”

Altaïr nods his assent and does not rebuke, making his way to rest on the cushions lying in the entrance.

Malik is unsure whether he is angrier at the other man for not engaging or at himself for getting so distracted. He thinks Kadar would tell him to not be so foolish, to let go of things past. To forgive.

The thought of Kadar reminds him he hates Altaïr.

He rubs his chest, absentmindedly noting the dull burn coming from his scar.

////

It is late in the morning and Malik is still in bed. Altaïr has not yet returned and he has heard no other novice grace his doorstep quite yet so he allows himself to lay and scowl at the ceiling. He has not slept properly and has had nothing but unpleasant dreams.

He has also had an epiphany.

Research must be done and facts must be proven, and he must still test his new theory in order to search for a better understanding of the mechanism before declaring himself absolutely certain but inside himself he knows it is the only explanation.

This scar is somehow Altaïr's doing.

The first time it appeared it was violent, sudden, unexpected. The second time was still painful yet slightly less jarring. Last night it was only a burn. All times had but one thing in common: he was speaking of his loathing of the man.

He is unsure as to whether Altaïr has found some foreign sorcerer to curse him with this in order to bring an even heavier burden upon Malik's existence (as if dealing with the man was not enough) or if this is not to attribute directly to him at all. In any case, an explanation must be found lest he lose his sanity pondering over how the universe has once again played tricks on him. He chances a glance down at his pectorals and sees the soft pink of the gash stark against his skin. It does not hurt, nor has it bled since Bakir's visit. He cannot offer a logical reasoning behind this if not in the subtle difference that the first time he had spoken aloud, while yesterday he had not. Perhaps the wound ached according to the severity of his affirmations? Unwilling to feels discomfort as he was, he much needed to confirm this hypothesis sooner rather than later.

The morning is already off to a less than thrilling start when he hears chatter coming from the entryway. He prys himself away from the linen sheets and forces himself hastily into his robes. A voice from the other side of the wall calls out for him and he vaguely associates it with one of Bakir's brothers, most likely accompanied by the nuisance himself. Malik readies himself for whatever scolding he may need to impart and leaves the room, though his thoughts do not stay behind.

/////

It is not until evening that he sees the bane of his existence, even if many voices have already reached him about the Assassin's recent deed. He would think Altaïr would have the decency to preserve some discretion, yet that appears to be too much to ask from a simple novice. Malik is not in a good mood, he has had to pay off several heads to help scatter false rumours about the white hooded man that took Talal's life, thus avoiding bringing attention to the bureau or the brotherhood. These expenses would have gone unneeded if only the man in front of him had taken more care. 

Altaïr appears impassive as he saunters in, holding the blood soaked feather in front of him as a victory call. He greets the man with sarcasm because there is nothing more between them except spite.

“ Altaïr, wonderful to see you return to us.”

“ Malik. The deed is done, Talal is dead.”

“ Oh, I know, I know. In fact...the entire city knows! Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?”

Altaïr looks sincerely confused, as if he does not understand why the Dai would be so agitated, and slightly furrows his eyebrows. “A skilled assassin makes sure his work is noticed by the many.”

Malik tries to maintain a semblance of calm, he really does, but an acute headache throbs through his temples and he would just wish today over with. How did this man even manage to still be alive? “ No! A skilled assassin always maintains control of his environment.”

Altaïr makes a half retort about how the mission was accomplished in any case so the Dai should not be vehemently complaining. He mentions Al Mualim's name in an attempt to pacify the dark haired man, perhaps thinking of winning the debate. Malik will not let himself be stepped on so easily and invites Altaïr to see just who the Grand Master will decide to side with in the argument. He then turns to his register, thinking the conversation ended, and begins to scribble furiously on a new page, etching in history the details of the slave merchant Talal. He only barely hears when Altaïr says, in almost a murmur: “You and I are on the same side Malik.”

The Dai's head does not move from above the page because all of a sudden he has remembered the scar and his own intentions of discovery for today. Altaïr has just provided the perfect opening to test his earlier theory, yet he hesitates to grasp it in fear of being correct.

He looks up and surely enough the white clad man is still there, though he has taken a few steps forward so only an arm's length separate the Dai and the Assassin. Malik can tell he is once again using his sight and he feels raw under that gaze, all reluctance leaving his body as he announces: “We may be part of the same brotherhood and share the same goal, but never mistake that with being on the same side. You have long lost that privilege and -” he braces himself, leaning his arm on the table lest he lose his standing again “- I feel nothing but loathing towards you.”

As sure as the sun rising in the East, a piercing throb goes through the muscles of his torso before shifting into searing pain. This time, he is prepared and does not fall, does not even flinch as he feels the blood seep out through the open tissue. Altaïr's eyes fall upon his robes and widen at the sight of what Malik imagines to be a large dark stain crawling its way through white cloth. The Assassin steps forward, hand extended as if ready to help steady the Dai and Malik's name leaves his lips in a nothing more than an incredulous hurried whisper. Malik will not let him help, he just wants him to leave, to never come back, to take his pain along and leave him _be_. He steps back, stretching the space between them, as his looks stop Altaïr in his tracks.

“ Leave.”

Altaïr hesitates. Malik does not move. For a long moment the only sound heard in the bureau is the quiet trickling of the water in the fountain. Resignation is heavy in the Assassin's eyes when he finally decides to head the implied warning.

////

A couple of months go by. Malik has not been able to rest properly, his bones ache from many nights with his back arched over his books and he is sure his eyes must be bloodshot from lack of sleep. He often dreams of pools of crimson, of spears piercing his body, the brothers mocking him for being so weak.

Yet sometimes the dreams are of a different nature, nostalgic and bittersweet. He sees Kadar, sitting on one of the benches in Masyaf and carving some form from a small piece of wood. He is wearing his novice robes and the grin with which he greets Malik could rival the sun in its brightness. In some of these dreams they will just enjoy each other's presence, other times they will talk. Kadar often tells him to not be angry, to find the peace he deserves, even though Malik is unsure whether he will ever again know the meaning of the word. They tell each other stories about their mother, how she would sit them by the fire and sing them softly to sleep. How she would kiss them on the cheek before taking them to the market and buy them sweets afterwards if they were good. In these occasions, Kadar always takes his hand, gifts him the carving and tells him he will wait for them to be reunited, in a land where they will never be separated again, and Malik feels swelling in his heart and tears in his eyes at the thought of seeing his brother once more. Kadar always fades away too soon and he is left alone on the bench in the night breeze of the mountains, a small wooden horse clutched in his hands.

Other times, more often than he will admit to himself, he dreams of when he and Altaïr, already young men, would sneak out of their cots at night to climb up the highest points of their home and stare at the stars. Malik would point out the constellations and Altaïr would listen intently and hum at regular intervals to make sure the other boy knew he still had his attention. Occasionally Altaïr would fall silent and Malik would know he had drifted off. Sometimes he would turn to gaze at the other boy sleeping, strands of hair swaying softly in the cool air, and he would feel something more than the familiarness of friendship curl in his stomach. Those dreams leave him with a warmth in his chest and a soft smile on his lips until reality inevitably takes its toll and he  _ remembers. _

He has still not found an answer to his questions, they swirl in his mind incessantly, making it difficult to concentrate on his daily tasks. Though under no circumstance does Malik allow them to influence his work for the brotherhood, as that would prove undignified for a Dai.

News of Altaïr's work reaches him regularly, if not through the passing brothers than through the informants he occasionally meets on the streets. It appears the novice is at last learning his lesson and progressing very quickly at that. He should be relieved for the brotherhood that they no longer need be worried about being compromised at the hand of their best pupil, yet it somehow brings little solace to know that Altaïr is steadily regaining his rank once more.

////

Altaïr is sent again to Jerusalem shortly after that. This time he is after a powerful man, one that could very easily have the means to end the Assassin once and for all if not dealt with properly. Malik cannot muster the energy for an excessively sarcastic greeting this time so he merely asks “Why do you trouble me today?”

And, to himself, he thinks that Altaïr troubles him every day, even when not present.

There is no mention of their previous encounter.

Once Altair has explained his mission, Malik heads a warning to the Assassin, lest he readily allow his arrogance to put him in unnecessary danger, and expects him to demand information in return. The other man unexpectedly does not demand anything at all, instead he asks “Where would you have me begin my search?”

This is an unprecedented event in their interactions and Malik wonders if he heard correctly or if his ears are failing him along with the rest of his weary body. A voice in the recesses of his mind offers him the possibility that he might be going mad after all. “ What's this? You're actually asking for my assistance instead of demanding it? I'm impressed!”

His gaze catches Altaïr's lips as they quirk slightly upwards and muses to himself that yes, perhaps the man has finally grown. Before he knows it he is smirking himself and there is a fleeting instance where golden irises meet dark hazel and it is clear both are hiding mirth behind their glinting eyes.

If he is honest with himself Malik has missed this, this banter with a man that used to be his friend and that shared breezy nights with him on desolate rooftops. Kadar's voice from his dreams rings through his head and for a moment he manages to pretend the world is not cruel and unjust. He gives Altaïr the desired information and actually receives thanks in return.

He never thought he would see the day.

////

Some hours later Altaïr returns with the information gathered and Malik does not pass by the opportunity to call him novice more than once, along with generously lecturing him on the true ways of the assassins. They exchange a few barbs even though they both know there is significantly less spirit behind them than usual.

Malik leans down to collect a new feather for Altaïr to take on his mission to rid Jerusalem of Majd Addin, taking a moment to fiddle with the jammed drawer that he still hasn't managed to find the time to fix. He finally pries open, taking out the feather and depositing it on the counter. Looking up, he realizes Altaïr is now in front of him, closer then he has been ever since coming to the city for the first time. Malik notes that he still has not rid himself of the dark circles, though his lips look softer and less damaged. He does not smell of rot today, more of musk and hay.

Altaïr slides his hood off and rakes one hand through short hair Malik has not seen in quite a long time. He sometimes forgets about the man's half Christian origins but the dark sandy color is a quick reminder that Altaïr is not from the same land as himself. He briefly thinks about golden fields of wheat and glistening beaches.

“Malik? I wish to tell you something yet I am unsure as to how it will be met. I have been struggling to find the correct way to approach this...” He trails off and offers no continuation until Malik grows impatient and says “Be out with it novice, I do not have all day.” Altaïr stares at the floor for a moment before meeting the Dai's gaze with all too fragile eyes. Malik is uncertain if he should save himself from what is to come by running out of the bureau as quickly as he can muster.

“ I wish to apologise. I am not self centered enough to believe that this will suffice to solve the problems between us, yet I must tell you...” Altaïr looks down again and allows himself a moment of pause as if collecting his thoughts. “I spend every day with the weight of the pain I have caused you upon my heart. I am aware that I cannot make things different, no matter how much I desire them to be. If it were in my power, I would give you back everything you lost right this instant. Yet I cannot and I will most likely spend the rest of my existence hoping it was I left with De Sable in your stead. This burden has rendered me bitter and angry, someone I do hot recognise... I loved Kadar as my own brother and I love-” The man looks up, evidently startling himself and causing the Dai even more confusion. “I am truly full of regret.”

Malik sees the pain in Altaïr's features, sees the real man under the white robes and knows he is telling the truth. In his heart Malik aches for Kadar still, missing him as much as he would miss the air were it gone. Nothing will ever bring the boy back and the brother that stayed behind will always carry this pain in his heart, an ache so strong it cannot be measured. Knowing this, he still cannot bring himself to be angry at Altaïr for this apology...Not anymore. He does not know when the hate for him faded, knows only that in his chest there is no trace of it to be found, there is only weariness and something else that he cannot define. Seeing the other man like this moves something deep within him that he swore had been lost along with his arm, and yet there it is, emerging from the depths of his soul with the same delicacy of a blossoming flower.

He does not know what moves him but he finds himself reaching out and cupping a hand around Altaïr's cheek, stubble scratching him as he allows his thumb to caress the the purple bruises under the man's eyes. The boldness of the gesture and its uncharacteristic spontaneity makes the Assassin's eyes widen and his breath audibly catch in his throat, his body going rigid as he keeps himself as immobile as a statue. Malik is vaguely reminded of a wild animal in captivity.

He leaves his hand there for a longer instance and he smiles softly, once, at Altair. “ You truly have become the man you were meant to be.”

It is apparently what Altaïr needed to hear because as soon as the words leave Malik's mouth he allows himself to relax and just barely leans into the Dai's touch. For a second they are not Assassin and Dai but Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Malik Al-Sayf, two friends who would do anything for each other once more.

Cries from a passerby roll through the bureau and the spell is easily broken. Malik retreats his hand as if scalded and clears his throat.

“ Do not pester me any longer, be gone.”

There is no real spirit behind it and Malik tires not to feel disappointed when Altaïr leaves without so much as a goodbye.


End file.
